Chapter 7: The Canyonreach Triad

Mara stood naked at the heart of the Canyonreach square, skin glowing due to the merciless desert sun, gooseflesh rising despite the heat as wind-whipped dust traced invisible patterns across her body. Above, on the red-rock mesas, eagle-riders watched with folded wings; below, the crowd—scarred scouts, dust-caked cowboys, women in frayed shawls, teenagers clinging to ledges—held its breath in near silence.

She had heard the stories. Canyonreach broke candidates. Some crawled away mid-trial, ambition bleeding out with their pride. This year, there were only two candidates. Quitting was not an option.

A group of men stood apart from the longer line of hardened scouts and riders, their sun-hardened, scarred bodies taut with anticipation. For Mara, the stakes ran deeper still: Canyonreach had long despised Golden Reach softness, and the wrong pick could arm her chosen man with a grudge he’d wield like a blade.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she approached the scrawniest first—boyish frame, small soft cock, eyes darting like a trapped animal. Mara circled him slowly, fingertips trailing down his narrow chest, over the faint tremble of his stomach, then closing around his shaft with deliberate gentleness. He flinched but stayed rooted. Weak, she thought. Scared. The kind who might be gentle ... or who might lash out at the first woman who ever let him feel power.

The crowd watched, silent, expectant.

She met his gaze. Something flickered there—gratitude, perhaps, or the first spark of hunger.

“I choose him,” she said, voice low but carrying through the echoing stone.

A proctor nodded once. The man stepped forward, eyes still lowered, then lifted them slowly. He gestured toward a shadowed alcove at the square’s edge where a rough-hewn wooden bench waited, its surface stained dark from years of use.

Mara followed, pulse roaring in her ears.

As they reached the bench he leaned close, voice suddenly soft and venomous against her ear:

“Golden Reach whore. I’ve waited years to break one of you.”

“Beg me to piss in your mouth. “ he whispered, voice low and venomous. “Swallow every drop while you thank me or I will smack your tits until they are purple. And don’t you dare close your lips until I’m empty.”

The canyon seemed to tilt. One sentence, and the world narrowed to this: his cock, her mouth, the waiting crowd.

They leaned forward as one—cowboys baring teeth in grins, scouts murmuring approval, teenagers perched on ledges with wide eyes, women watching behind cupped hands, old timers nodding like judges at an execution. Every face radiated the same hunger: to see the soft girl from Golden Plains reduced, broken, claimed. Even Sera, across the square, watched with that cool, predatory smile—no sympathy, only calculation, as if measuring how far Mara could fall before rising again.

Mara was in shock, but understood then, bone-deep: obey, or forfeit everything. After the brand on her ass in the last province—the perfect circle burned into flesh—she was already marked as a vessel. Now this man would fill it. How completely she had misjudged him.

She sank to her knees on the rough stone, the heat of the day still radiating up through her shins. The words lodged in her throat like thorns. No one had ever demanded this of her. She stared at his cock, now rigid, veins pulsing, aimed at her face like a weapon, Her stomach bile was already rising in anticipation.

This is Canyonreach, she thought. This is where they break.

But she could not break. Not with only two left in the pilgrimage. Not with the High Matron’s throne hanging in the balance. The future of her country was at stake.

She swallowed once, throat clicking, then forced her voice out—loud, trembling, but clear enough to carry across the echoing square.

“Please,” she said. “Please piss in my mouth. I want it. I need it. Give it to me ... all of it.”

He stepped closer and did not hesitate. The first hot stream struck her lips, acrid and sharp, flooding her tongue. Mara gagged instantly—eyes watering, throat spasming—but she kept her mouth open. It spilled fast, bitter and endless, overflowing her lips, cascading down her chin, tracing warm rivulets between her breasts. The smell hit her: sharp ammonia mixed with dust and canyon wind.

“More,” he commanded.

“Please ... more,” she choked, voice thick and wet. “Put your urine in my mouth. I want everything. Please.”

He angled higher. The stream strengthened, filling her again. She swallowed convulsively, gulping what she could while the rest poured down her neck, pooling on her stomach, dripping to the stone. Tears streamed freely. Her body shook, but she held position. The crowd erupted—wild cheers rolling off the red walls like thunder, teenagers whooping from the mesas, cowboys clapping, scouts raising fists. They cheered the man, for her degradation, but not her.

It felt eternal. When he finally shook off the last drops onto her face, he fisted her hair, yanked her forward, and drove his cock deep into her throat—still slick with his own piss. He fucked her face with brutal rhythm, hips slamming, forcing her nose against his pelvis. Mara gagged helplessly, throat convulsing, saliva and residue dripping in strings from her lips. She couldn’t breathe; each thrust pushed more of the bitter taste deeper.

“I almost made myself cum twice before this,” he growled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Wanted to make sure I could ruin you properly.”

For Mara it felt like forever, but when he came, it was sudden—hot pulses straight down her throat and then he pulled out to stripe her face. Cum mingled with drying piss in sticky trails across her skin. Mara knelt gasping, coughing, trembling, the taste a thick film on her tongue.

The crowd’s roar filled the canyon like a living thing.

Mara stayed on her knees for a long moment, chest heaving, wiping her face with shaking hands. She rose slowly, the degradation was real, and returned to the center of the square.

Her first claim was done. Two more choices awaited for Mara.

Sera Vael had watched Mara’s first task unfold across the open space—had seen the scrawny man force Mara to her knees, had seen the stream of piss fill her mouth. Sera’s gaze had also noticed the fresh red welt circling her ass. Sera’s lips curved into a faint, sarcastic smile. She got her ass burned in the last province with a perfect circle? she thought. And now her mouth matches. How poetic.

Now she had to make her pick. Sera hoped her instincts would be better than Mara’s had been.

She approached a scarred loner first—tall, broad-shouldered, skin weathered by years of desert sun and wind. Old knife wounds crisscrossed his chest and arms. His cock hung heavy, thick, veins prominent. His eyes were calm, almost detached, watching her without hunger or cruelty. Sera circled him slowly, fingers trailing the rough scars on his torso, down to his stomach, wrapping around his shaft. She squeezed once, testing. He did not flinch. His pulse was steady, strong. Calm eyes, she thought. He won’t rush. He’ll want something controlled.

“I choose him,” she said, voice clear, carrying across the canyon.

The jury nodded. The scarred loner stepped forward, calm as ever. He gestured to a low stone ledge nearby, where a woman waited—his wife, heavy-set, skin damaged by too much sun, her breasts looked full and heavy, her belly large and soft. She sat on the ledge, eating slowly greasy, juice dripping from her fingers.

The man spoke, voice low and even.

“I want you to eat out my wife,” he said. “She loves it. Lick her pussy until she comes. Make her loud. Make my wife squeal like a pig from excitement.”

Sera felt the canyon tilt. Kneeling was unfamiliar—humiliating in a way no previous trial had demanded. In Eldhaven, she had always been the one served, never the servant. Women had pleasured her, knelt for her, brought her to climax with eager mouths and fingers. But she had never pleasured a woman. Of course, she knew what women enjoyed but she had never knelt herself. Now she would, in front of hundreds, serve a stranger’s overweight wife with her tongue.

But Sera did. She knelt. The stone was warm beneath her knees. She positioned herself between the woman’s thick thighs, the scent of sweat and dates filling her nose. The woman’s pussy was dark, folds full, already glistening slightly. Sera leaned in, using her fingers to part the woman’s folds and push away the bushy hair. Her lips touched the woman tentative at first, tracing the outer lips. The woman moaned—low, throaty—and took another bite of date, juice dripping onto Sera’s hair. A sticky drop landed on her forehead, sliding down her cheek.

Sera’s pride flared, sharp and bitter. I am Sera Vael of Eldhaven. I do not kneel. But she knew, also she had no choice. She pressed deeper, tongue sliding along the slit, tasting salt and musk. The woman groaned louder, hips shifting. Sera worked methodically—efficient, reluctant—tongue circling the clit, then dipping inside, then back to the clit. There was a chore to be done and she would complete it.

The fat woman ate faster as her excitement grew, dates falling from her fingers, juice splattering onto Sera’s head and back. The crowd watched, silent at first, then murmuring, more laughing than aroused at the scene.

The woman’s moans escalated into raw, desperate squeals, her heavy hips grinding harder against Sera’s face. Sera pressed on—tongue merciless, lips sealed tight in suction—until the woman arched violently, shrieking as she came in violent spasms, flooding Sera’s mouth with thick, sticky juices that mingled with the date syrup and spilled in warm trails down her chin and throat. When the climax finally broke, the woman collapsed forward like an overfed sow, shuddering and spent, sated in her gluttonous excess.